


Coitus Interruptus

by De_Nugis



Series: Be Mine verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes Sam for a romantic getaway. Sam has a kink. Castiel is busy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coitus Interruptus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous request for a timestamp meme on Tumblr.
> 
> Since the original Be Mine took place in an AU future to late s6, characterization and events from later canon do not apply here.

“Can I be of further assistance?” Cas asks. Dean winces. Cas has mastered sarcasm a little too thoroughly.

 _Yeah, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and the next day is the anniversary of the incest sex with Sammy and Sam probably expects me to do something to, like, celebrate or some shit, and what am I supposed to do, buy flowers?_ Dean does not say any of this. It’s his usual crap luck that the one person he knows who isn’t likely to lose his shit at the incest part is an angel who abuses airquotes. Whatever this is he has with Sam, Dean doesn’t think getting it angelically airquoted will help.

“No,” he says. “Thanks, Cas. Uh, I think me and Sam might go off for a few days. You know, take a break. So we’ll stay out of your hair. Maybe you should, too. Take a break, that is.” Or start another civil war or whatever, it’s not like Dean wants to dictate Cas’s hobbies.

“Thank you, Dean. I’ll consider it.” Cas’s tone makes it clear that he will be doing Important Tasks, probably on a cosmic level, certainly not something frivolous like watching TV or banging his brother.

“Awesome,” says Dean, “have fun.” And Cas is gone with an irritated whuff of displaced air, leaving Dean alone with the incest anniversary problem. Hallmark always slacks off on the job just when you need them. Hallmark and angels have both let him down. Dean feels wronged.

Still, it turns out Cas did give him an idea. The going away thing doesn’t have to be just an excuse. Dean can arrange a romantic getaway. Chicks like those. Sam probably will, too. They can have a romantic getaway and lots of sex. 

Of course, the day before Valentine’s Day is not exactly the right time to be booking romantic getaway venues. Dean’s awesome idea would have been more awesome if he’d had it a couple months back. But Dean is resourceful. They have Rufus’s cabin. Sam likes nature. He’ll enjoy a romantic getaway in the woods.

And, OK, it's February, weather can be an issue. But, as Dean points out, they do have a snow shovel in the trunk. And it doesn’t take long — like, forty-five minutes, tops — to clear a path to the door. Sam is whistling while he takes his turn with the shovel and his cheeks and the tip of his nose and his ears are going all pink, and what with that and the way his jeans go tight around his ass when he bends for each shovelful and then the easy heft of his shoulders as he lifts and dumps it to one side Dean isn’t really noticing the right the fuck below fucking zero temperature. He, for one, is still on board for the lots of sex part of the plan.

The electricity’s dead, but that just means a fire. Fires are romantic. And the sex is going to be awesome. Sam will appreciate that. 

“You wanna try something new?” Dean asks, when the fire has stopped smoking and Sam has stopped coughing.

He intended to sound seductive. His voice comes out booming and official. Sam looks at him quizzically.

“New?” he says.

“Yes,” says Dean. He can’t seem to get rid of that parade ground bark. Great. Really romantic. “I thought, you know. It’s been a year, tomorrow. I thought if there was something you, like, you know, wanted to try . . .” he trails off, because Sam is laughing at him.

“Are you working up to confessing some unmentionable kink?” he says. “Like, me in Leia buns and a bikini? Because, dude, we’re committing incest. If you want to go in for a little light bondage or something, I don’t think that’s where we get on the train to special hell.”

Dean forges on past the image of Leia-Sam, because Dean is a fucking hero.

“No!” he says. “This isn’t about me. I don’t want anything. What I want is to try what you want to try. This is supposed to be for you. I thought you’d like it if we did something. I wanted to do something. I mean, since it’s Valentine’s Day.”

The light from the fire keeps moving on Sam’s face, so open and secretive that Dean can’t stand it, the light and the heat. Sam comes a step closer, two.

“Spank me?” he says. His voice wavers a bit, like it did when he was a kid and it was breaking.

"What?" says Dean.

"It's something new we could try," says Sam. "You could spank me."

“ _Spank_ you?” says Dean. Somehow this wasn’t what he’d imagined. It seems kind of, well, basic. He’d thought Sam might want something weird, out of a book. And it’s a bit embarrassing. This is Sam. Dean’s not supposed to think of, well.

Sam’s lips quirk up again.

“Unmentionable,” he says. “Really, Dean, it’s OK. If you don’t want to, that’s cool. But Jess used to, sometimes. I liked it. You wanted to know, that’s all, if there was something I’d like to try. So that’s something. But it’s OK if you’d rather not. I don’t mind.”

“Are you humoring me?” says Dean suspiciously. There’s a dimple on the left side of Sam’s mouth, and, while that’s in no way a bad thing — in fact, Dean kind of wants to do something stupid and kiss it — it looks a bit closer to indulgent than turned on.

“No. Well, maybe a little bit. But that doesn’t mean I, uh, don’t, uh,” and just like that Sam is blushing, like Dean’s never seen in his one day short of a year of brother-fucking, bright pink like he’s back in the snow, but all pricked over with sweat like this freezing fucking cabin is a fucking sauna. Dean catches a whiff of it, even through all those layers of plaid, the salt that breathes from Sam’s body.

Dean’s neutral to _hell, yes_ on the spanking thing. Because, yeah, he likes Sam’s ass. Anything that involves more interacting with Sam’s ass has got to be good. But on making Sam blush like pretty girl, on making Sam sweat so the salt breathes out from his pores, on that Dean’s not neutral at all. He’s so not neutral that he’s hard as diamond against his jeans. The firelight ripples through the cabin, heat and light, but Dean, Dean’s a fucking salamander, Dean can move through the fire, he’s made for this.

“Take off your clothes,” he says. He’s still got that bark in his voice, but it doesn’t sound stupid any more.

Sam starts to unbutton his shirt, babbling. “I mean, since you asked,” he says, “I mean, it’s really nice of you, really, this whole thing, the cabin, it’s nice, Dean, I just wanted, you know, since you asked me to come up with, I mean, since you asked, it’s not like . . . ” his shirt’s on the floor now, his undershirt, his under-undershirt — Jesus, Sam, there's layers, and then there's just excessive — he’s starting to unzip his jeans. Dean could move closer, Dean could help. But Sam’s not just pink now, he’s scarlet, his fingers shaking as he shucks his boxers, and oh, no, Dean’s not helping, he’s not climbing onto the stage to interfere with this show. 

“Turn around,” he says, when Sam’s naked, “bend over.” The light from the fire is still leaping all over the place. It has to compete, now, with the flex and flow of Sam’s muscles, it has to compete with the fire running in Dean, along the hard line of his cock, tingling in his palms.

Rufus had some rickety cot thing. Sam has to be aware that that’s not going to do it for them, because he grabs the edge of the desk. The desk is solid hardwood, fixed to the log wall. It’s nothing, though, nothing compared to the planes of Sam’s back, his broad shoulders, his corded arms, the strong, springing slant of his spine. Any bit of Dean that still thought of this like some naughty student and principal thing, some flimsy Catholic school kink, melts away. Sam is a rock, he’s a sculpture by, like, fucking Michelangelo, Sam is all muscle and power, immoveable, there’s no give at all when Dean’s hand connects, only Sam’s pleased grunt. Dean doesn’t have to hold back. The pain in his palm is bright and reciprocal. Sam’s ass is turning red. They’re both panting. Dean loses count, lifting his arm, swinging in, smacking again and again. Then Dean is on his knees, still fully clothed, cock throbbing, his mouth against the hot skin, that he’s done this to, him, he’s the one, he’s made it red and sensitive, he’s made Sam gasp and clench at the lightest touch.

He parts Sam’s cheeks, tongues the musky ring of Sam’s hole, kneads and kneads at Sam’s sore buttocks. Sam is keening. Dean’s tongue probes in. It won’t be enough, not by a long shot, but Dean’s not rifling his pockets for lube right now, they’re not doing anything fancy, they both want it quick and rough.

“Wait,” says Dean. He leaves Sam braced and trembling while he strips. His fingers are preternaturally deft and steady. Sam’s hands had fumbled over his buttons, a bit back, Dean had seen them shake, but Dean’s hands are flying. Sam had relied on Dean’s hands, Sam had wanted Dean’s hands, they’re not going to tremble. When he’s done he runs them over Sam’s back, down his legs, all over, kisses the blind hollow between Sam’s shoulder blades, gives his ass two more hard thwacks, so hard that Sam cries out, bucks against Dean’s hand. Dean steps back.

“Now,” says Dean, “Sit. On the edge of the bed. On the blanket. Let it sting. I want you to feel it. I want you to feel where I’ve marked you.” His voice isn’t the parade ground bark now, it’s rough and raw and intimate with Dean’s own need. Sam draws in his breath, firelight flowing over his face, and sits. The cot dips and sags, but it will survive this, probably. Sam spreads his legs, looks up at Dean, breathing hard, sweating, trusting. Dean gets his hands under Sam’s ass as he kisses him, palming the heat. Sam’s cheeks will be dragged against the rough blanket all the time Dean fucks him, keeping the nerves alive where Dean’s hand printed them, rubbing, rubbing, striking like a match. Dean sucks his own fingers — he’s practically slavering, though maybe not as eager as Sam is, watching him— and pushes into Sam. They may be keeping the prep to a minimum, but there’s no cause to skip this part altogether. Sam folds forward, writhes and pants and sobs against his neck, Dean, Dean, Dean, fuck, please, Dean. Dean is nothing if not chivalrous. He takes his fingers out and comes in close, lets Sam feel his dick against the soft hollows inside his thighs. Sam’s long legs wrap and tangle around him, pulling him in. Dean grips Sam’s shoulders. Like a rock, a rock, but he’s spread wide for Dean. Dean’s never been this hard. “Now, Sammy,” he says. Sam nods. Dean ducks his head and bites Sam’s collarbone, hears Sam’s small moan, pushes up and in.

This is where it all goes horribly wrong, just when it’s going, like, really fucking right. _Really_ fucking right. Sam has his chin on Dean’s head. That’s one of the things about Sam, one of the things Dean has learned, gotten to know better over the last year. This particular fucking facet (or facet of fucking) is one where Dean could have done without closer acquaintance. But it is what it is.

See, it’s like this: there’s a window of maybe five seconds before orgasm, the duration of orgasm, and five seconds after during which Sam forgets that he’s taller than Dean. The rest of the time he has it firmly in mind. Dean can feel him being aware of it, even at moments when he damn well shouldn’t be taking note of anything beyond how hot his brother is. Like now, when he’s just been spanked, when Dean has just proved himself the master fucking spanker. But Sam, Sam doesn’t forget. He likes to accentuate it with moves like resting his chin on Dean’s head while Dean fucks him. Or maybe he just gets bored and likes to keep an eye on what’s going on in the wider world. Sometimes Dean finds it almost endearing. Sometimes it makes him want to slap Sam in the not fun way. 

Right now, when Sam says “Hi, Cas,” brightly into the air behind Dean, Dean finds it appalling.

“Hello, Sam,” says Cas’s voice, “Dean. Are you busy?”

There’s really no answer to that one, under the circumstances. Anyway, Dean’s frozen up like now _he_ ’s the fucking statue, and not any goddamn Michelangelo, either, some really bad statue by Mr. Renaissance Crappy McNobody, so he’s really not nearly as fucking busy as he was about thirty seconds ago before fucking Cas fucking happened.

“We’re having sex,” says Sam, “mildly kinky sex. Dunno if that counts as busy.”

“Yes,” says Cas.

“Yes, we’re having mildly kinky sex, or yes, that counts as busy?” says Sam curiously. Dean can just see him cross-examining in some courtroom, all cool and fully clothed, at his ease. Sam never really left that Sam behind, did he? He’s still long and hard and hot against Dean’s belly. Dean, by contrast, has deflated like a pricked balloon. 

This is the worst night of Dean’s life. And when a Winchester says that, it means something.

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” says Cas. There's a growl in his voice that reminds them that he dragged them both out of hell and could throw them back in, and that, were he to do so right now, a whole lot of demons would find their predicament funny. Dean should probably intervene. Yes, being cast into hell might be a blessed relief at the moment, but Dean probably shouldn’t let his brother and his best friend get into some hair-pulling, tossing-into-hell fight.

“Did you need something, Cas?” he asks.

“There is a matter. But it can wait. Briefly. If you’re busy.”

“We’re a bit busy,” says Sam.

“Can I help? In the interest of expediting matters.”

“Thanks, but I think Dean’s got it. He’s good at this,” says Sam chirpily. Dean feels a glow of mixed affirmation and annoyance. On the one hand, it’s nice that Sam is endorsing his prowess. Not that Dean has doubted that Sam’s been, well, enjoying stuff this last year, that he was enjoying tonight, but still. It feels good to hear it. On the other hand, Sam seems to be having just about as much fun with this whole excruciating conversation as he was with the prowess part. That’s a little insulting.

“I’ll come back later, then,” says Cas. 

“Why don’t you just wait outside for a bit?” says Sam.

“Will you be reasonably quick?”

Sam glances at Dean.

“Oh, I think we can promise that,” says Dean.

“Very well,” says Cas, and winks out. Somehow that only makes him seem more present. Dean can visualize him precisely, standing like an oddly dressed statue, another goddamn statue, right outside the door in the subzero cold, listening with a mixture of brisk impatience and impartial curiosity to what’s going on inside.

“You wanna . . .” says Sam. He waves his hand vaguely. Sam’s hand gestures for sex are classy, almost balletic. Just now Dean is not in the mood to appreciate them. Though it’s nice of Sam to ignore Dean’s wilted dick. 

“Oh no,” says Dean, “no way. I am now the exact fucking opposite of horny.” Never having sex again sounds good. Maybe Dean will explore his spiritual side. He could become a hermit in, like, Tibet. Except, of course, Cas could show up any time and watch Dean’s spiritual exercises with rapt and critical attention That’s a slightly worse thought than Cas watching Dean give his brother a good dicking. At least Dean excels at sex. He probably sucks at spiritual exercises. And Cas probably has standards.

Sam sighs but doesn’t protest. They pull apart, Dean slipping out of Sam with sad ease, and begin to gather their clothes. Before Dean can put his hand on the door Sam touches his shoulder.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, “really. I mean it. It was great. You were great. I’m sorry we got, well, interrupted. It would have been great.”

Sam is humoring him again. Even at his most blitzed, just-after-orgasm appreciative Sam doesn’t say _great_ quite that much. It’s certainly overly enthusiastic for _coitus interruptus_. But it doesn’t feel bad. It feels solid, like a bulwark, a promise.

“Be my Valentine?” says Dean. He digs in his pocket. He’s still got it, a glossy, anatomically correct plastic heart full of anatomically correct heart chocolates. Sam opens it and takes three, offers one to Dean.

“Come on,” he says, with his mouth full. “We’ll get whatever it is done and then come back. Or, better yet, go somewhere else. Somewhere that features angel-banishing sigils as motifs in erotic artworks. We’ve got time, Dean. That’s kind of the point. We've got time. Thanks for the chocolate.”

A year and counting. Time. Yeah. They can go work a job and this won’t go away. They’ve worked lots of jobs this past year and it’s been there, ridden with them, put up with bad motel rooms and fights and sprains and near-deaths and it hasn't gone away. It will be patient while they do whatever goddamn favor Cas is asking.

Dean opens the door.

“We’re getting us some you-repellant porn murals as soon as whatever this is is taken care of,” he tells Cas. 

“I’m sure you’ll find them inspiring and artistically meaningful,” says Cas. “No doubt they’ll enhance your experience. But right now I need your help.”

“Lead on,” says Sam.


End file.
